Chapter Text
Positioned before the towering double doors adorned with intricate jade carvings and gilded reliefs, Tim shadowed his Prince with vigilant stillness, his eyes tracking every corner of the corridor to anticipate an ambush. His Prince possessed a formidable build for a fifteen-year-old—broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, and masked by an unyielding composure that commanded the hall despite his youth.
The sentries flanking the threshold slammed the butt-ends of their spears against the flagstones, their voices ringing in unison: “Announcing Prince Damian al Ghul, ibn al-Xu'ffach, to appear before the Great Demon’s Head, esteemed Lord of the League of Assassins!”
“Enter,” a loud, authoritative voice echoed through the antechamber.
Tim straightened his spine, slipping into complete sensory focus as the heavy valves parted. A faint emerald luminescence spilled through the widening gap, revealing a grand chamber draped in silk tapestries woven with precious gems and gold trim. In the center of the room, upon an elevated dais, sat an elaborate throne. The Demon’s Head sat relaxed, yet his blazing green eyes remained razor-sharp, raking over his grandson to measure every micro-expression for weakness.
His Prince strode forward with measured grace before kneeling at the base of the dais. Tim followed precisely one meter behind, dropping smoothly onto the freezing stone. The floor of the Demon's throne room was colder than mountain ice, but Tim did not allow his knees to shift.
“Grandson,” the Demon’s Head greeted with an air of calculated cheer. “You have developed well. All of your tutors report exceptional mastery; you excel in every subject befitting a prince. I am satisfied with your progress in swordsmanship, battle strategy, and the survival arts of an heir.” A deep, gravelly voice echoed eerily through the silent chamber.
“Thank you, Grandfather. I strive only to be a successor worthy of your legacy,” his Prince replied, his cadence level, strong, and confident.
Tim exhaled a quiet, imperceptible breath of relief, keeping his head bowed in absolute deference. He is not here to reprimand him. Yet Tim knew this summon carried greater weight, given that they had been instructed to don formal ceremonial robes and state jewelry before answering the call.
“Very well, Grandson. You please me,” Ra's al Ghul continued solemnly, his voice silencing the high-ranking generals standing as witnesses. “Now that you are prepared, I announce that you, Prince Damian al Ghul, ibn al-Xu'ffach, shall partake in the Coming of Age Initiation Ceremony one week from tonight. This rite shall cement you as my legitimate heir, successor to the Demon's bloodline. The ceremony will take place when the blood moon reaches its zenith, bathing our new heir in its glorious crimson light.”
“It shall be done, Grandfather. I shall give my all to fulfill the trial and bring honor to our name,” his Prince accepted the decree evenly.
“The court has concluded. You are dismissed.” The Demon’s Head made a dismissive sweep of his hand.
The prince rose smoothly, and Tim matched his movement in a single fluid motion. Stepping back from the dais with lowered eyes, they turned and strode out of the grand chamber.
Tim followed his Prince’s brisk pace back toward the private residential wing, navigating the labyrinthine corridors carved directly into the frozen mountain rock. Iron sconces held flickering torches along the walls, casting long, medieval shadows across ancient flagstones. Yet, nestled alongside the centuries-old stonework were reinforced automatic doors sealed with biometric scanners and complex electronic keypads. This jarring intersection of archaic feudal mysticism and cutting-edge military technology made Nanda Parbat an unsettling, contradictory fortress. But having walked these frozen halls for eight years, Tim was thoroughly accustomed to its strange nature.
The outer threshold of the royal wing was guarded by two sentries flanking a heavy ironwood double door. Recognizing the Heir, they pulled the heavy valves open in silence. Beyond lay a reinforced inner antechamber sealed by a secondary electronic lock—a barrier to which only the Prince and Tim held clearance codes, with only the Demon’s Head and Talia holding master override.
Tim latched the heavy door behind them, sealing out the cold corridors of Nanda Parbat.
Turning, he watched his Prince collapse onto the low leather divan. The stony mask that he wore before the court fractured into a tight, brooding scowl. The Prince unclasped his ceremonial sash and belt, tossing them aside before carelessly stripping off his heavy gold collar and state pendants. Rare emeralds and beaten gold lay strewn across the cushions like discarded trash. Something suffocating weighed on his mind—the sudden, ominous declaration of the impending rite.
Tim crossed the floor with soundless steps and dropped to one knee before the divan, settling into his familiar rhythm of deference.
“Amīrī,” Tim murmured, keeping his voice soft as he looked up. “What troubles you? As your Ḥāfiẓ, tell me, and I shall see it resolved.”
The Prince stared at the unlit hearth for a long moment before his piercing green gaze settled onto his sentinel. “I was aware an initiation would be demanded of me upon my fifteenth year, yet none of my instructors have disclosed the parameters of the trial itself.” he tilted his head back against the leather, exhaling the tense breath he always held in his grandfather’s presence. “Knowing Grandfather, it is designed to test my absolute limits. I must know what it demands to prepare accordingly.”
Tim raised his head slightly as his Prince’s scowl deepened.
“In a moment of frustration, I even pressed Mother regarding the ceremony,” He continued, a bitter scoff breaking through his teeth. He had never enjoyed speaking with her; their interactions were defined by transactional coldness. “Foolish of me to expect truth from her. All she offered were cryptic riddles that answered nothing.”
“If that is what concerns you, Amīrī, I shall collect the intelligence myself,” Tim offered solemnly, his analytical mind already mapping vectors. “In a few hours, the commanders will convene to finalize the logistics of the rite. I can secure a vantage point and gather what you need.”
The Prince paused, studying the quiet determination in his younger sentinel's eyes before nodding firmly. “Very well. But exercise extreme caution, Ḥāfiẓī. The council does not tolerate eavesdroppers. Nothing is worth your safety. If you are discovered, not even my standing as Heir can shield you from execution.”
“Do not worry. Lady Shiva herself noted that my presence is nearly imperceptible; I will use that to ensure no one detects me.” Rising smoothly, Tim adjusted his forearm guards. “Now, Amīrī, I must report to the lower dojo. Shiva does not tolerate tardiness, and she insists my reflexes must be honed further to guard you. Once the drills conclude, I will shadow the war council. I shall bring you an answer before midnight.”
Tim pressed a fist over his heart in a disciplined salute, earning a subtle nod of acknowledgment from his prince.
“Watch your footing with her, Ḥāfiẓī,” his Prince warned from the divan, his sharp eyes tracking his sentinel toward the threshold. “She is a lethal woman—perhaps even more ruthless than Mother. Do not provoke her temper, and keep your wits and blade sharp to match her pace.”
“Understood, Amīrī. I shall take your warning to heart.”
Tim walked briskly to the doorway, letting the cold, calculating mask of the Ḥāfiẓ settle over his features before stepping out into the hall. Descending the winding stone stairs toward the lower depths of the mountain, the biting draft chilled the back of his neck as he approached the training pavilion.
There stood Lady Shiva before long racks of polished steel. Tim bowed low and retrieved a pair of matched training blades—today marked the final day of a grueling cycle dedicated to perfecting his dual-sword forms.
Shiva unsheathed her scimitar with a clean hiss, stepping into the ring. “Punctual as always, Timothy. Today marks the conclusion of your double swords training. I shall not hold back. Give me your absolute best, or forfeit your head.”
“Understood, Shifu.”
Tim dropped smoothly into a low, balanced stance, angling the matched steel blades before him. One guard covered his throat; the other hovered over his centerline. He regulated his breathing, letting the chill of the dojo ground his focus.
Shiva didn't bother with a countdown.
She shot forward without warning.
Her sword came in high and vicious, cutting through the air toward his head. Tim brought his left blade up, knocking her steel away just in time. The heavy collision sent a sharp shock right up his forearm, rattling his teeth. Before he could pull his arm back, she slashed her second blade straight at his ribs.
Tim spun on his toes, dodging beneath her swing and lunging forward to stab toward her collarbone.
Shiva didn't back off. She twisted her body sideways, letting his blade slice empty air, and slammed her hip hard into his stomach. The impact knocked all the air out of Tim's lungs, throwing him backward and sending him skidding across the sand on his hands and knees.
He barely scrambled to his feet before her sword rained down on him again.
It was a relentless, unbroken storm of swings, thrusts, and slashes. Tim was forced backward step by punishing step, frantically blocking with both blades. Every parry threw off bright sparks against the stone pillars around them. His arms felt like heavy bags of wet sand, his muscles burning as he struggled to keep up with her longer reach and raw physical strength.
By the twentieth clash, Tim brought his swords up to cross-block a fraction of a second too late.
Shiva shifted her grip and slammed the heavy metal pommel of her sword straight into his temple. His vision went white, his legs turned to jelly, and he crashed violently onto the hard stone floor. His fingers went completely numb, sending both of his blades clattering across the floor out of reach.
“Again,” a cold voice commanded, the syllable slicing through the quiet of the dojo and cutting short Tim’s ragged gasps.
Forcing his trembling legs to hold, Tim scooped his dropped wooden swords off the floor, sucked in a sharp, steadying breath, and dropped back into a ready stance. Sweat stung his eyes, his arms and chest throbbing from the non-stop beating. He squeezed the handles tight, ignoring the sharp sting of the shallow cuts crisscrossing his forearms.
Lady Shiva didn’t give him a second to breathe.
She crossed the room in a flash, her curved sword slashing upward in a blinding flash straight for his neck. Tim crossed both blades, catching her strike in an X-block and throwing her momentum sideways before ducking beneath her raised arm. He spun on his toes, bringing his second sword around; the slash grazed her arm guard, leaving no trace on her skin.
Shiva didn't even blink. With an easy flick of her wrist, she batted his next hit away like a pesky fly.
She attacked with raw, deadly power, while Tim stayed alive on pure evasion—hopping, ducking, and darting side to side like a shadow. For a few frantic seconds, the room filled with the deafening clang of steel on wood. Then, catching a split second of an open window, Tim lunged right into her chest.
Everything stopped dead.
The tips of Tim's twin training swords were locked in place—one touching the skin of Shiva’s throat, the other pointed straight at her stomach.
Shiva did not flinch. A faint smirk touched the corner of her lips as she leaned back a fraction of an centimeter, just out of lethal range.
“Acceptable, Timothy,” Shiva remarked smoothly, twirling her blade before sheathing it at her hip. “Your form holds. Next, we shall advance to blunt weaponry. Never underestimate a staff or club—in trained hands, blunt force fractures bones just as decisively as an edged blade. We will resume at dawn. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, Shifu.”
Tim remounted his swords on the rack and dropped into a low, formal bow. He left the pavilion, wrapping his stinging forearms as he took the interior corridors toward the subterranean Annex of Applied Sciences to complete his technical rotations before the evening council. Coincidentally, the high commanders' session would not convene until his technical rotation was finished.
The steady hum of high-voltage power supplies replaced the ringing sound of clashing practice swords as Tim stepped into the underground lab.
Rows of dark workstations were set up in neat curved lines beneath bright overhead strip lights. This wing looked completely different from the ancient stone walls of the upper fortress. Clear glass touchscreens, glowing 3D hologram maps, and sleek brushed-metal desks made the whole room look like a top-secret military research base.
Instructor Qasim—an old, withered computer expert whose artificial metal right eye clicked every time it focused—strode between the desks. He drilled the trainees without pause, testing their speed on how to set off blackout shockwaves to fry electronics, how to jam overhead spy satellites, and how to break through password-locked mainframe terminals.
Tim took his seat at a console, his posture rigid and submissive, resting his small hands over the keyboard.
The computer screen in front of Tim showed a mock security network modeled after a Western military intelligence system. Qasim stood right behind him, breathing down his neck, the tiny motor in his fake eye whirring as it zoomed in on Tim’s hands.
Tim purposely slowed down his typing, waiting just a split second between each key.
Instead of taking the clean, instant shortcut he already saw, he typed out a clumsy, basic password-guessing command to batter through the outer security wall. He let the system throw up a small red error box on the display, making it look like a clumsy attempt before the screen finally blinked green to let him through. Tim kept his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight, putting on a show of sweating through the third password barrier, even though his brain had already cracked the entire digital lock in three seconds flat.
“Acceptable, Timothy,” Qasim rasped, his mechanical eye refocusing. “You grasp logic architectures faster than the other initiates, but your decryption sequence lacks elegance. Work through the fourth stratum before the dismissal bell.”
“Yes, Master Qasim,” Tim murmured, keeping his gaze locked on the glowing monitor.
The moment Qasim paced down the aisle to reprimand another student, Tim’s fingers flew across the bottom keys in a silent blur. With just four quick taps, he slipped a hidden wipe command into the computer's temporary memory. The tiny program scrubbed away every trace of what he had just typed, completely hiding the fact that he had already unlocked a secret back door into the classroom’s main server fifteen minutes ago. Showing full competence in Nanda Parbat was a fatal error; a prodigy with a terminal was simply a tool to be locked in a server vault.
He counted down the remaining minutes of his rotation, eager to begin his true mission.
When the dismissal bell tolled, Tim hurried down the corridor toward the bathhouses. The strategy meeting would begin in thirty minutes, giving him barely enough time to wash away the salt and scent of sweat. Several veteran commanders possessed acute olfactory tracking, and he refused to let an errant trace of perspiration compromise his position.
Over the years spent exploring the fortress, Tim had mapped every forgotten vent, drainage duct, and structural blind spot to ensure he could extract his prince if Nanda Parbat were ever attacked. On one of those excursions, he had located a network of narrow access crawlspaces running directly above the grand council hall.
After a swift wash, Tim pulled on fitted charcoal-black stealth robes and walked briskly toward a deserted service corridor. Pulling his dark cowl over his lower face, he hoisted his light frame up into a concealed ceiling grate. Crawling through the tight metal duct, he navigated the bends until a sliver of light signaled the vent exit.
He climbed out soundlessly, balancing his bare feet along a dusty wooden rafter.
Positioning himself within the deepest pocket of shadow, his icy-blue eyes surveyed the floor below. The chamber was an extravagant clash of traditional tapestries and high-security tactical consoles. Crucially, the hall possessed exceptional acoustics, designed to carry every hushed whisper from the dais directly up into the beams. Tim settled into the dark and waited.
He did not have to wait long. Footsteps soon echoed through the hall as Ra’s al Ghul’s high commanders filed inside, taking their seats around the grand table. Talia al Ghul sat at the head, looking regal, sharp, and cold. A low murmur filled the room as the officers settled, but Talia raised a single, commanding hand, instantly cutting short the chatter.
The meeting began.
Below, the commanders unrolled a diagram of the ceremonial altar, their voices flat and clinical. Tim recognized the structure instantly—he had passed the open-air stone altar atop the northern peak during a winter survival trial years ago, freezing and half-starved, wondering what dark rites were conducted on that wind-swept stone.
“The tribute will be bound upon the dais,” General Hassan stated, tapping a calloused finger against the parchment. “When the blood moon reaches its peak, the boy must drive his blade through the captive’s heart without hesitation. If the Heir flinches, the bloodline is disgraced.”
“Have you encountered any difficulties securing the tribute, General Hassan?” a low voice inquired.
“The matter is settled,” Hassan replied evenly. “I have selected a captive of the Heir’s approximate age, possessing a similar build and countenance. He is secured in the lower holding cells as we speak.”
“Flawless,” Talia’s sharp voice cut through the chamber. “The elimination of a vessel cast in his own likeness shall fulfill the ritual, symbolizing the destruction of his past self to fully embrace the way of the Demon.”
High in the rafters, Timothy’s breath caught in his throat.
This is not an initiation—this is the slaughter of an innocent. His knuckles turned white against the wooden beam. They were not merely crowning an heir; they were methodically hollowing his Prince out into a killer.
The council continued, ironing out secondary logistical details—from the bespoke ceremonial robes commissioned for the Heir to the guest roster of elite witnesses.
Tim waited until the council concluded and the hall cleared before recoiling silently into the shadows. Slipping backward into the crawlspace, he retreated through the conduits with urgent speed.
Tim moved silently through the dim corridors toward the residential wing, his hands trembling as he processed the horror of what he had overheard.
He could not allow this ritual to occur. The execution was engineered to strip the older boy of whatever humanity he had preserved within these walls. Tim shuddered at the thought of his prince—brilliant, disciplined, and fiercely loyal—being twisted into a ruthless, soulless instrument of slaughter like his grandfather and mother.
His Prince had been his constant anchor ever since Tim was traded to the League at four years old to settle his family's syndicate debts. Assigned as a candidate for the royal guard, Tim had advanced rapidly through swordsmanship and tactical deduction to become the Prince's personal shield. Over the years, Tim had learned the boy behind the formidable mask: his quiet tenderness with stray cats, his strict vegetarianism, his reverence for all living things down to plants and insects, and the fierce heart he hid beneath his haughty exterior. Tim was grateful to serve him; his Prince was the only living soul in this wretched fortress who still possessed goodness. Had he been assigned to any other royal in this fortress, Tim would have felt no loyalty at all.
Tim understood the brutal reality of the League of Assassins. He had witnessed executions and torture, watching kind souls get crushed into dust. Now Lady Shiva was forging him into a weapon to deliver that very violence. But he refused to let them destroy his Prince.
Where could they go? At fifteen and twelve, defying an empire of killers seemed impossible. Yet Tim was the sworn Ḥāfiẓ to Prince Damian; he had to find a way.
Nodding to the outer sentries, Tim rushed past the threshold and halted before the heavy inner door of his Prince's quarters. He steadied his racing breath, turned the iron ring, and slipped inside.
The latch clicked softly shut behind him.
His Prince surged to his feet from the divan, his training blade resting on the low table. “You were gone longer than anticipated, Ḥāfiẓī. Report. What did the council decree?”
Tim leaned his back against the heavy wood of the door, his chest heaving beneath his dark robes, his face pale.
“Amīrī,” Tim whispered, his voice trembling despite his training. “You cannot attend that ceremony.”
“What? What could you have possibly overheard that possessed you to say such madness? I cannot simply abandon my duty as Heir.” The Prince’s brow furrowed in immediate defiance. “Yet you are not prone to hysteria. Tell me, Ḥāfiẓī—what did you hear that has turned your face as white as the snow outside?”
He crossed the room, placing two heavy, grounding hands onto Tim’s shoulders.
Tim fought to steady his breathing. “They intend to force you—they will force you to execute a captive. An innocent boy bearing your exact age and likeness is bound in the subterranean cells. Beneath the blood moon, you will be ordered to drive your steel through his heart without hesitation. They claim... it will symbolize destroying your former self to seal the Demon's bloodline.”
The Prince’s tanned complexion drained, his acid-green eyes widening in rare shock. “Impossible! There is a mistake! The initiation is meant to test my mastery of strategy, statecraft, and the blade—not... not butcher's work. You have misheard. I shall speak to Mother at once.”
He pulled his hands from Tim’s shoulders and turned toward the door.
“Amīrī—” Tim caught the silk of the Prince’s sleeve before he could take another step. “Your mother sat at the head of the table. She led the council and sanctioned the execution herself.”
The Prince froze, the color fleeing his features entirely as confusion and betrayal flashed through his eyes. “Mother attended the council?” The words tore out of him, sharp and incredulous. “She actively sanctioned this slaughter?” His voice wavered in disbelief. “Are you certain the captive is innocent? Perhaps he is an enemy infiltrator who requires execution—”
“He is an innocent captive chosen solely for his build and his face,” Tim reasoned softly. “You have lived within these walls your entire life, Amīrī. You know the cruelty of the council. Is this truly beyond what they are capable of?”
“The final test...” his Prince whispered, his expression hardening into stone as a quiet tremor ran through him. “A slaughter in cold blood.” His jaw clenched violently, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned bone-white.
Tim gently guided the older boy back to the plush divan. “You do not have to yield to this, Amīrī. We can find another way.”
The Prince scoffed bitterly. “And invite the full wrath of Grandfather and Mother? He would devise a far crueler retribution. He would command me to run my blade through you to punish my defiance. And I... I could never do that. Not to you.”
Tim felt his throat tighten. He would gladly bleed for his Prince, but he refused to let him be broken by the Demon's mantle.
“I know this is not the path you wish to walk, Amīrī,” Tim said, dropping to one knee before him in a posture of quiet devotion. “If you remain here, they will systematically strip away everything that makes you human.”
“Mind your tongue. They are still my blood,” his Prince barked, though his voice lacked conviction, sounding raw and exhausted.
“They do not see a son, Amīrī—they see a weapon. They demand your blood and your soul to satisfy their ambitions. You do not have to conform to their cruelty.”
“Then where would you suggest we go?” The Prince’s sharp green gaze snapped to Tim’s face. “Grandfather’s reach spans continents. Do you expect us to live as hunted vagrants for the rest of our days?”
“Have you ever wondered why they bestow the title ibn al-Xu'ffach upon you?” Tim asked, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “It pertains to your father. Your family across the sea.”
Ibn al-Xu'ffach.
Son of the Bat.
His Prince frowned. “Mother claimed my father perished long ago. Yet she lies whenever it serves her.” A spark of calculating focus reignited in his eyes. “Perhaps your theory has merit. I shall uncover more regarding his identity.”
“Leave that to me, Amīrī,” Tim insisted. “You cannot be seen venturing into the restricted annexes. People are bound to notice, especially with the Rite only seven days away.”
“Very well. I place my trust in your reconnaissance, Ḥāfiẓī,” his Prince murmured, his tone grave. “Yet I must impress upon you once more: your life outweighs any intelligence. Do not compromise yourself. You are the only anchor tethering me to sanity in this wretched place.”
“I understand, Amīrī. I shall execute your command.”
“Halt,” his Prince ordered firmly as Tim began to rise. He gestured toward the adjoining door leading to the guard's antechamber. “Shiva expects you at dawn. You must rest if you are to maintain your form. I dismiss you to your quarters, Ḥāfiẓī. I will consider our next strategic step.”
“Understood, Amīrī,” Tim replied, bowing low in deference. “I shall return tomorrow with news of your father.”